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He stood and stretched, his now limp cock hanging between his legs. He looked down at the quivering, defeated woman before him. Her downcast, distant gaze, her chest still trying to recover from so many stolen breaths of air. She was coated in his spunk and her legs had remained sprawled open from where he had abandoned them. Somewhere deep in his chest he felt a pang of regret.

He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, “Where is the shower?” he asked, his voice tired. He had poured all of his energy into pounding her and standing was difficult.  She stood on weak legs of her own, the will to fight having been fucked out of her. He stopped her arm with a touch just outside the kitchen, where he fetched the discarded scarf. She held her hands behind her back where a few bruises were forming from her earlier water torture. He tied her hands again, with a softer touch but with a tighter knot.

Robin lead her rapist up her stairs and down the hall to her master bedroom. No one but her had occupied this space for two years and it made her breath hitch as she stepped onto the tiled floor of the bathroom.